The following weeks established a gruesome rhythm. Days were spent pushing his body to its limits under the Doctore's gaze, and nights were spent in the quiet ritual of accumulating strength. The transactions arranged by Ashur were now a routine part of his existence, a cold process that had lost its revulsion, leaving only calculation. Every +2 Essence he gained felt like a coin hoarded in a secret fund, a treasure visible to no one but himself. Slowly but surely, his reserves crept upwards, promising true power that still felt distant.
{Name: Thomas Vance}
{Essence Stored: 34}
{Active Legacy: [None]}
One afternoon, the routine shattered. Batiatus strode into the training yard with fiery energy, a wide grin on his face betraying boundless ambition. He gathered all the gladiators, from the mighty Crixus to the lowest recruit.
"My sons!" his voice boomed, full of theatrical drama. "The gods have blessed us with an unparalleled opportunity! The Magistrate of Capua will host the grandest primus of the season, and the House of Batiatus has been granted the honor of presenting its main course!"
A murmur of anticipation spread among the gladiators. A primus meant a grand fight, great rewards, and glory.
"At the climax of the event," Batiatus continued, savoring every moment, "we shall present a fight that will be told for generations! Our champions will face the legend himself… Theokoles, the Shadow of Death!"
The name struck the yard like a lightning bolt, freezing every murmur. Even Crixus seemed to stiffen. Theokoles was not merely a gladiator; he was a myth, a monster rumored to be unkillable. Batiatus raised his hands, his smile widening.
"To face such a legend, the strength of one champion is not enough! Therefore, I shall send forth my TWO greatest storms! The current champion of Capua, the undefeated Gaul, CRIXUS! And the gladiator born of blood and sand, SPARTACUS!"
The decision was a stroke of insane genius. Forcing two rivals who hated each other to fight together was a spectacle beyond measure.
"But before that," Batiatus said, his eyes now sweeping over the lesser fighters, "the crowd needs warming up. Opening blood must be spilled." His gaze stopped, pointing at Thomas and Varro who stood side by side. "You, hero of The Pit. And you, Varro. Both of you will open the games. A two-on-two fight. Show Capua how men from the House of Batiatus fight."
That night, in their dark cell, Varro couldn't settle. "Against two men in the arena… in front of everyone… Thomas, this isn't The Pit."
"And that's our advantage," Thomas replied in a low voice, his eyes focused on the sica in his hand as he cleaned it. "They'll expect a show, not a fight for survival. We'll give them the latter." He looked at Varro. "Listen. We work together. I'll find the opening; you break it. Win, and you can send coins to your wife. Think of that. Only that."
The next day, as the iron gates before them groaned open, the world changed. The dazzling Capuan sunlight felt like a physical blow after the darkness of the tunnels, and the roar of tens of thousands of spectators immediately enveloped them, a wave of sound that made Thomas's ribs vibrate. As they stepped onto the hot sand, he realized they were no longer just slaves; they were a spectacle, flesh thrown out to be judged by the entire city. Across the arena, their two opponents waited, their large, muscular physiques radiating an aura of brutal violence, cruel sneers on their faces as if already relishing the bloodshed to come.
The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight.
The two brothers charged in unison, their axes and swords raised high. Thomas and Varro immediately separated, forcing their opponents to choose a target. Varro, shield foremost, absorbed the brutal assault from the axe-wielder. A loud clang echoed as the axe struck the shield, making Varro's arm tremble.
Thomas faced the swordsman, using his agility to keep his distance. He didn't attempt to attack, merely evading, letting his larger opponent exhaust himself with wild swings. However, he saw Varro beginning to falter. A fierce kick from the axe-wielder sent Varro stumbling, and a quick slash managed to wound his shoulder. Blood seeped out, staining his skin.
Seeing his friend in danger, a cold panic crept into Thomas's heart. He had to change the course of the fight. His opponent, seeing Thomas distracted, lunged with a deadly thrust.
In that split second, a cold decision formed. Burn one Essence.
A jolt of energy surged through his body. He didn't use it to parry. He used it to dart sideways with unexpected speed, making his opponent's thrust miss widely. Without stopping, he continued to run, ignoring his own opponent and charging towards the axe-wielder who was about to finish off Varro.
The maneuver worked. The axe-wielder was startled and forced to stop his attack to face the new threat from the side.
"VARRO, NOW!" Thomas yelled.
Varro, seeing the golden opening created by his friend, ignored the pain in his shoulder. With a furious roar, he slammed his shield into the axe-wielder's face, making him stumble, then plunged his sword deep into his ribs.
One opponent fell.
The second man turned, his eyes blazing with rage at his brother's fall. He blindly charged at Thomas. This time, Thomas was ready. He dodged the first swing and, as his opponent lost his balance, he stepped in and swung his sica in a quick, efficient arc, directly into the back of the unprotected knee.
A gruesome crack echoed, and the man fell to his knees, screaming. Before he could do anything, Thomas ended his suffering with a swift thrust to the neck.
A momentary silence, then the arena exploded in deafening cheers. Thomas stood amidst the ocean of sound, his breath ragged, the blood of others staining his arm. He looked at Varro, who returned his gaze with a painful, grateful nod. They had done it.
As the slaves dragged the bodies out, the arena's attention shifted. The main gates opened again, and Crixus and Spartacus stepped onto the sand. Across from them, Theokoles emerged like a nightmare made real. The true fight was about to begin, and their victory moments ago now felt like a meaningless prelude.
From the edge of the arena, Thomas and Varro's victory felt like a distant memory. The air around them vibrated, no longer from cheers for them, but from thick, bloodthirsty anticipation. Thomas leaned his exhausted body against the cold tunnel wall, his eyes fixed on the three figures in the sun-drenched sand.
The fight began. As expected, Crixus, the Champion of Capua, advanced first. There was a brutal beauty in his movements. Every step, every sword swing, every shield block was a perfect embodiment of the discipline taught by the Doctore. He was a fighting machine honed to peak perfection, a wave of attacks designed to crush weaker opponents.
But Theokoles was no weaker opponent.
The giant withstood Crixus's assault with terrifying composure. He moved very little, his twin swords dancing in an impenetrable defensive arc, parrying every blow with almost effortless precision. Thomas watched with bated breath, his analytical brain working furiously. Crixus fought by the rulebook, and Theokoles had read that book, memorized it, then burned it. The legend's experience was an invisible shield, far stronger than any wooden or bronze one.
After Crixus's initial storm subsided, Theokoles retaliated. His movements were slow, heavy, but every swing carried the weight of destiny. He didn't try to outspeed Crixus; he crushed him with relentless pressure. The fight became a slow dance of death, where the Capuan champion was constantly forced back.
Then, Theokoles saw an opening that Crixus himself might not have even realized. As Crixus shifted his shield to block an overhead strike, his lower body was exposed for a fraction of a second. With a horrific horizontal slash, one of Theokoles's swords tore across Crixus's abdomen.
A collective roar from tens of thousands of spectators sounded like a breaking wave.
Crixus gasped, disbelief on his face. He staggered back, his hands instinctively going to his stomach, trying in vain to hold back what was now spilling out of the gruesome, gaping wound. The Champion of Capua, the undefeated Gaul, fell to his knees on the sand.
As Theokoles raised his sword to deliver the final blow, another roar, wilder and more furious, ripped through the air. Spartacus.
The Thracian charged forward, not with technique, but with pure savagery. He did not try to duel Theokoles honorably. He threw himself sideways, rolling in the sand to evade attacks, and used his shield not to parry, but to bash into the giant's knees.
Thomas watched, fascinated. Before him, two opposing philosophies of combat were vividly displayed. Crixus was a product of the system, a perfect fighter within established rules. Spartacus was a product of chaos, a warrior whose only rule was to survive by any means.
Spartacus kept moving, never giving Theokoles a stationary target. He leaped, kicked, and used his superior speed to deliver quick strikes before retreating again. He frustrated the legend, forcing him to move in ways he wasn't accustomed to.
In a brilliant and desperate maneuver, Spartacus flung his shield like a discus, striking Theokoles in the face and sending him staggering backward. Before the giant could regain his balance, Spartacus lunged forward. He leaped onto Theokoles's muscular thigh, using his opponent's own body as a stepping stone, and with all his might, he plunged his sword deep into Theokoles's thick, unprotected neck.
Total silence.
Theokoles stood frozen for a moment, his empty eyes staring at the sky. Then, like a colossal statue losing its foundation, he toppled forward, shaking the arena's sand for the last time.
Spartacus stood over the corpse, gasping for breath, his body covered in his own blood and his opponent's. He raised his sword, and the roar of the crowd that greeted him was so powerful that Thomas could feel it vibrate in his chest.
Guards rushed in, some to lift Crixus's dying body, others to drag away the legend's corpse. The show was over. A legend had died, and a new legend had been born.
Thomas returned to the tunnels, his mind racing faster than ever. He had just witnessed the most important lesson of his new life. Discipline alone was not enough. Savagery alone was not enough. To truly win in this world, one needed both. One had to know the rules to break them at the opportune moment.
The hierarchy of the ludus had shattered. With Crixus on the verge of death and Spartacus now the hero of Capua, chaos was imminent. And in chaos, Thomas thought coldly, there was always opportunity.
-------------------------------------------
{Name: Thomas Vance}
{Essence Stored: 33}
{Active Legacy: [None]}